


Born on a Thursday

by lapsus_calami



Series: No One Chooses This Life [2]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Crossover, Gen, Hunter!Stiles, John Winchester is sort of a good guy, Spark!Stiles, Teen Wolf/Supernatural crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:47:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsus_calami/pseuds/lapsus_calami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The kid showed up on a Thursday. John's not in the habit of taking in strays, but the bundle of patheticness sitting on his car has a standing voucher from Bobby and he may prove more than a little useful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Рождённый в четверг](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12736524) by [hisaribi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hisaribi/pseuds/hisaribi)



> Second part in my ongoing Teen Wolf/Supernatural crossover. I just really needed Stiles interacting with the Winchesters, okay? I also maybe shamelessly _borrowed_ the plot of a certain Supernatural episode because...well just because. 
> 
> Please enjoy fledgling Hunter!Stiles.

**Born on a Thursday: Chapter One**

The kid showed up on a Thursday. John came out of the motel room, shrugging on his coat and looking for coffee and breakfast, and the kid was sitting on the Impala’s front bumper, hair tousled by the wind and cheeks pink from the chilled air.

He was young, probably only a year or two Sam’s senior, with dark hair, pale skin, and a lanky build hidden by a layer of shirts and hoodies beneath an oversized coat. A canvas duffle rested on the blacktop next to his booted feet.

John didn’t speak for a moment, studying the boy before him and assessing the threat level. Minimal probably, no visible weapons and not looking particularly menacing. Actually looking pretty damn pathetic and simply raising a lot of questions. The biggest questions being who the hell was he and how did he find John.

“Who are you?” John asked gruffly, drawing himself to his full height and working what Dean called his ‘dark and menacing’ stare. It was an intimidation technique that generally produced honest answers quickly.

The kid just blinked, seemingly nonplussed. “Are you John?”

“I'm going to need to know who you are before I start answering your questions,” John said, growling the words out but the kid just grinned like John answered his question anyway.

“I’m Stiles. Bobby said I might find you here. Well, you know, here being the general area. You have a very distinctive vehicle,” the kid, _Stiles_ , obviously not his real name, said revealing little and working John over with an assessing gaze of his own.

“Bobby sent you?” John doubtfully.

Stiles shrugged, pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows in an expression that should have looked ridiculous but somehow simply managed to convey a silent and drawn out idea of ‘well, not exactly.’ “He told me the county, gave me some information. Said if I could find you I could talk to you, but that he wasn’t going to send me to my death directly. He could have given me the state if he wanted to challenge me since he seems to like making me find people.”

John frowned and considered Stiles shrewdly as he pulled his cellphone from his pocket. Stiles smiled at him as he thumbed number three for Bobby’s speed dial and held it to his ear all the while keeping an eye on the kid as he moved towards the Impala.

_“Whaduya want, John?”_

John huffed at the less than courteous greeting. “Somethin’ you want to tell me, Singer?”

_“Nothing in particular I can think of. Care to provide more details?”_

“How about a homeless looking five-foot something package of pale skin with an over abundance of confidence?”

Stiles looked affronted, scowling a moment before shrugging and seeming to accept the description.

Bobby was silent then whistled lowly. “ _Kid actually did it? I don’t know why I’m surprised.”_

“Yeah, he’s sittin’ on the hood of the Impala right now. Speaking of which, mind getting off?” he ordered, somewhat satisfied when Stiles stood up promptly and held his hands out in surrender before taking several steps away from the hood despite the haughty look of distaste on his face from being told off.

_“Here’s the deal, Winchester. Stiles called me about a month back asking all the right questions. Some of them too right. Told him I’d help him out if he could track me down in a week. He showed up on my doorstep in three days. Kid’s been through something, won’t say what but something. He came alone and hasn’t mentioned any family. Hasn’t given a surname and I can’t track any information on him down.”_

“Name’s probably not even real,” John commented shooting a look to Stiles who was watching him with a feigned expression of innocence.

_“Stiles? Yeah, no kidding. Look, the kid’s looking for a mentor. Asked about you specifically based on a few offhand mentions. He’s smart, a good researcher, you and Dean could use him.”_

“Dean and I are doing fine without Sam,” John growled not missing the sharp look Stiles gave him and cursing his slip up in front of the kid.

_“That’s not what I meant and you know it, John. Stiles is gonna be looking into this stuff with or without us and, between you and me, I think the only way he’ll get through it without biting the bullet in a matter of months is with you.”_

“I’m not in the habit of taking charity cases, Bobby.”

Bobby huffed, a note of finality in it. _“Work a couple jobs with him. If you decide he’s too big a pain in the ass send him back to me or leave him behind. Good luck with that though because I’m pretty sure he’ll stick to you and Dean like a parasite until he gets everything he wants, which at this point, is to learn.”_

Bobby hung up before John could reply. John scowled at his phone, regretting replacing his old flip phone, which was much more satisfying to flick closed compared to tapping a touchscreen. He crossed his arms surveying the kid once more.

“I’m not a charity case,” Stiles said. “I can help.”

John sighed certain he was going to regret this choice later. Opening the car door he popped the trunk. “Put your bag in the trunk and get in. We’ll talk over breakfast.”

* * *

Stiles started tapping his fingers nervously against the tabletop for the fourth time. Like the first three times he’d begun John shot him a dark look that twisted Stiles’ insides uncomfortably, reminding him of a combination between Derek, Chris, and Harris but with an extra helping of homicidal. Frightening really, but Stiles would be damned if he let John know that. He’d come this far, managed Bobby—although Bobby was truly more of a loveable teddy bear deep inside, actually kind of reminded Stiles of his dad a bit—and he would not be deterred by a glowering man who could rival Derek in a glare-off.

He continued to tap, leg bouncing to join in as well to really round out the fidgeting performance of the year.

“More coffee?” the waitress asked cheerfully, stopping by their table. John nudged his cup with a polite thank you as she topped his cup off. “And you, sweetie?”

“Uh, no. No, thank you,” Stiles said. One cup was more than enough with his Adderall.

John eyed him silently, sipping at his coffee while skimming what appeared to be old newspaper articles. He’d said they would talk but appeared to be trying to outwait Stiles’ silence and get him to talk first. Stiles was determined not to break first, but it was difficult. Hence the tapping.

He switched up the rhythm, tapping out a new pattern that somewhat approximated the melody of _Raise Your Glass_ , at least to his ears, which had been stuck in his head on continuous repeat since he’d gotten off the bus late last night.

He could be patient, could outlast John Winchester. He’d found the bastard; he wasn’t going to fail the first test of his character or whatever this was. He’d wait.

And wait.

Waiting.

_So raise your glass if you are wrong._

Still waiting.

_In all the right ways, all my underdogs._

Patiently.

_Party crasher, party snatcher. Call me up if you’re a gangsta._

Patience is a virtue.

_Don’t be fancy, just get dancy_

Stiles seriously doubted that was a legitimate word. But he was not one to judge. No, sir.

_Why so serious?_

Joker reference. John could use a smile actually, probably. So could Stiles if he wanted to be honest for once.

_Slam, slam, oh hot damn._

Slam, slam, oh goddamn, how did people _wait_?

_So if you’re too school for cool_

And why was this song so freaking weird?

_We will never be, never be anything but loud_

“Is that research for the job here?”

Fuck. He did not mean to say that out loud. Failure.

John paused in his reading, glancing up over his coffee cup. “If I answer, will you stop tapping?”

Thank god. Stiles nodded, flattening his palms to the table and making an effort to still his leg. “Yeah, totally, no tapping.”

“We finished up a job in Bustleton yesterday. Before we left I caught wind of this,” he said handing Stiles a newspaper article about a missing teenage boy. “This is the third boy to go missing from an apartment complex in the past month.”

“Common factors?” Stiles asked, skimming through the article quickly.

“Aside from all living in the building? All boys between ages of fourteen and nineteen.”

“What makes you so sure it’s not just a person?” Stiles said. “There’s nothing to suggest anything supernatural in the article.”

“That’s true. But three in a month from the same complex is unusual and worth checking out.”

“Do you have pictures of the boys? Maybe they’re a preference type.”

John shook his head. “No, not yet. The missing persons files will have them.”

Stiles set the article aside raising a questioning eyebrow. “How will you get those?”

“I have my ways,” John answered evasively.

Stiles chuckled. “Are your ways legal?”

“Not particularly,” John admitted glancing up as the door chimed announcing another customer.

Stiles turned in his seat, spotting the young man John was looking at immediately. Tall, short haired, and wearing a slightly too large leather jacket. Must be Dean, the eldest son.

Dean headed over to their table, motioning for coffee on the way. John stood, allowing Dean to slide in next to the window before returning to his seat.

“Got your text, Dad. Who is this?” Dean said, leveling Stiles with an intense stare. Stiles stared back a little shocked at how much Dean resembled Jackson, both in level of physical attractiveness and in the general douchebag aura he gave off.

“Dean this is Stiles. Stiles, Dean,” John introduced. “Stiles will be working a few cases with us.”

Dean looked surprised, not to mention a little angry. Stiles steeled his own surprise inside, maintaining his poker face even as the resident knot in his chest uncoiled a bit in relief.

“Why?” Dean asked, glancing away from Stiles to his dad looking troubled. 

“It’s a favor to Bobby,” John said and Dean quieted at that, nodding and taking a deep gulp from his coffee. “There will be some rules, Stiles.”

Stiles rolled his eyes because, obviously. John frowned but refrained from commenting. Stiles made a mental note to try and tone down his sarcasm. In front of John at least. He could totally do that. Well, he could try. “Okay, rules. I’m good with rules. Lay them on me.”

“First, while working with us, you obey my orders and when I’m not around you obey Dean’s. This is to keep you safe and alive,” John said.

“As safe as you can be,” Dean added.

John nodded. “If we tell you to do something, you do it. If we tell you to not do something, you don’t do it. Understand?” 

“Yes, sir,” Stiles said adding a lazy salute. John’s frown deepened. Note to self: Not doing so well in toning down sarcasm. “Sorry. Yeah, understood.”

“You’ll also participate in PT with Dean and I. How in shape are you?”

Stiles couldn’t help it. He laughed. John scowled, probably interpreting it as more insolent behavior on his part, and Dean’s lips actually turned up in a slight smile. How in shape was he? Hilarious. Between lacrosse, cross-country, and general running for his life he’d been in pretty good shape. But between being a human sacrifice, Nogitsune possession, and the general shitstorm that masqueraded as his life recently he was pretty sure a three year old could run circles around him now.

Cutting his laughter off abruptly, Stiles cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’ll give it a go but don’t expect much.”

John eyed him shrewdly but nodded. “You’ll work up to it if you’re with us long enough.”

“Sure. It’ll be great. I used to do cross country and lacrosse, but it’s been awhile so,” Stiles replied shrugging. “What else?”

“Your objective here is to learn. You’ll help on hunts. You’ll shadow one of us at all times in the beginning. Later, you’ll have your own tasks. You will be expected to do your share without complaint. Don’t expect to be running through a graveyard with a shotgun shooting rocksalt,” Stiles pulled a face looking at John questioningly in confusion, but John continued on, “all the time. Hunting is eighty percent research, fifteen percent travel, and five percent actual fighting. In the beginning you’ll be heavy on research. Clear?”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Totally cool with the research. I’m great at research. Research is awesome, you know, as long as I have a computer with Wi-Fi and access to books. Which I do. One question,” he said. “Why the hell would we be running through a graveyard with a shotgun firing rocksalt? You do realize rocksalt will not be a very effective weapon except at very close range and even then the most it should do is stun something.”

John frowned and Dean’s jaw literally dropped. It was rather unattractive really. “Uh, because of a ghost?” Dean said once he recovered, sarcasm lacing his tone.

Stiles blinked and sent a slow glance at John to judge the truth of Dean’s statement. John’s expression was blank, an expectant look in his eyes. “Sure,” Stiles said nodding. “Ghosts. Why not?” he muttered leaning back in the booth. He tapped his fingers along his elbow for a moment then reached out to grab the saltshaker considering it curiously. “So salt is a harmful to ghosts? Does it kill them? You know, like, again? Why a shotgun?”

John smiled, or as close to a smile as Stiles figured the man was capable of, and said, “It’s not particularly harmful, more of a repellent. The shotgun is more effective than throwing a saltshaker but throwing salt would work as well. A ghost also can’t cross a line of salt so a circle is often used as protection. You kill a ghost by salting and burning the bones and setting the spirit to rest.”

Stiles nodded, absorbing the information and making a mental note to stock up on salt along with mountain ash. He wondered if a druid could manipulate salt the same way they could manipulate ash and mentally added a note to consult Deaton about it. “What if the bones are already burned?” he asked. “Like sixty percent of people are cremated nowadays.”

“Vengeful spirits tend to be older, often dead for more than a decade though not always, and people who are cremated are typically laid to rest then. However, a spirit may remain attached to something as small as hair kept as a keepsake or to an object they were very attached too when they were alive. The same rule applies regardless, salt and burn to sever the connection,” John answered beginning to gather his papers. “Any more questions?”

Stiles opened his mouth, because, yeah, kind of, but caught the look on John’s face that indicated his question was actually a way of telling Stiles to stop asking questions. “Uh, no. Nope.”

“Anything you want to add, Dean?”

Dean pursed his lips, seeming to consider it for a moment. “You sit in the back,” he said finally. “No shotgun in Baby. And you take the cot in motel rooms.”

Stiles glanced at John, once again judging the validity of Dean’s statements. Again John’s face was blank. Stiles took that as support. “Yeah, okay.” Because screw shotgun if it meant he had the whole backseat to himself and it wasn’t like he’d be sleeping all that much so the cot was pretty much a moot point. “Whatever.”

John was silent a moment longer, looking between the two boys. “Okay, let’s go boys,” John ordered standing when neither Dean nor Stiles said anything more. Dean shot Stiles a somewhat dark look—so much like Jackson, Jesus—and followed his father. Stiles took a calming breath, splaying his hands on the table and counting. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Ten. Taking one last breath he stood quickly and followed the Winchesters.

* * *

The three of them spent the rest of the day talking to witnesses and the police. Or, rather, Stiles spent the rest of the day waiting in the car while John and Dean spoke to witnesses and the police, by pretending to be the _FBI,_ because Stiles was “too young” and would look “out of place.” Obviously. It was annoying even if it was true.

Every time the Winchesters returned to the car John would relay to Stiles the pertinent information as well as a short explanation on certain interrogation techniques. Stiles made sure to nod attentively and ask intelligent questions, although he did his best to limit the number of questions he asked so as not to give the man an aneurysm. Dean seemed to be doing his best to ignore Stiles, which was all fine and dandy. Stiles really didn’t need Dean. He needed John. Dean was an added bonus, or an unfortunate side effect, at this point. 

While John and Dean talked to witnesses and the cops, Stiles took the time to give Deaton a quick call about the salt question. Once he had it confirmed that, yes, druids could manipulate salt the same as they could mountain ash, Stiles added a note to begin practicing. After once again swearing Deaton to secrecy, Stiles let the man tell him about Scott and Kira and Lydia and Derek. He shied away from the subject of his dad when Deaton tried to direct the conversation that way and hung up quickly after.

After a quick calming down session—one, two, three, four, five—Stiles dug out the research John had earlier and flipped through paying more attention to details.

They grabbed McDonalds for lunch—Dean wolfing down two burgers and a large fry, gross, and, oh my god, the cholesterol—and Stiles talked John into letting him stay at a coffee shop—free Wi-Fi, hallelujah—while he and Dean spoke to the last few people of the day. Stiles looked into the background of the apartment complex while he ate a salad and a chicken sandwich, which was so much better than McDonalds. McDonalds didn't even have good curly fries, seriously.

Turned out the apartment building was built in 1924 and originally a warehouse before being converted into apartments a few months ago. A tedious look into the past eighty-eight years revealed no violent deaths, which research informed Stiles would be the most likely reason for return as a vengeful spirit. Once he ran out of sources to check for deaths Stiles started digging further back, but before 1924 the land had been an empty lot. For lack of anything better to do Stiles pulled the landlord’s phone number up and gave the man a call.

Asking questions subtly was more than a little difficult, but Stiles eventually managed to find out the second boy to go missing, Stuart, had just signed a rental contract for an apartment and then “skipped out” without paying the rest of the rent. Promising to get back to Ed about his interest in the apartment Stiles hung up and looked into hacking the local police network. It didn’t work so well and Stiles made a tentative mental note to maybe call Danny for some pointers later.

John and Dean joined him around dinnertime, deciding to just get sandwiches rather than find another greasy fast food joint, thank god. Stiles didn’t mention his research while John talked about finding ectoplasm in the apartment complex, ick, and the similarities of the missing boys. Jimmy—age fourteen, brown hair, brown eyes—had gone missing at the beginning of the month. Stuart—age nineteen, black hair, brown eyes—had gone missing a week and a half later. Thomas—age seventeen, brown hair, hazel eyes—had gone missing six days after Stuart.

“Tomorrow we’ll hit the library and public records office,” John said. “We need to find out the building’s history and any deaths that may have occurred,” he explained looking pointedly at Stiles.

Stiles poked at some of his lettuce and took a deep breath. “Building was built in 1924. Before that it was an empty field, nothing apparently. It was originally a warehouse before being converted to apartments four months ago. In the past eighty-eight years there have been no violent deaths, actually there has been practically no deaths. Also, Stuart’s apartment is up for rent. Ed says he’ll give you a discount on account of circumstances.”

John, who had remained thankfully silent throughout Stiles miniature speech, looked vaguely impressed. “You spoke with the landlord?”

Stiles nodded. “Wanted to know if he knew what was there before 1924.”

“Impressive work,” John said. “But we’re not staying in the apartment.”

Stiles furrowed his brow. “Why?”

Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Because, genius, in case you haven’t looked in a mirror lately you match the spirit’s type.”

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles said, still feeling like he was missing a crucial part of the program. “That’s kind of the point, isn’t it?”

“You wanna be bait?” Dean asked incredulously. “Are you insane? Like, seriously?”

“Dean,” John said sharply and Dean subsided still shaking his head in apparent amazement. “Stiles, you’re not going to be bait.”

“Why?” Stiles asked. “It’s the quickest way to draw it out isn’t it? I mean without knowing who it is we can’t burn the bones. And with no deaths to consider we can’t identify it unless we see it and the only way to see it is to draw it out which means using someone as bait. So, option A, we identify who might be the next target which could be any boy between the ages of fourteen to nineteen with brown hair and brown eyes and leave them unaware while you two keep watch or, option B, we stay in the apartment and hope the ghost picks me and we all get a good look when he tries to take me.”

“Since when did you become an expert?” Dean groused.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Today. Around two.”

“While you have a point, Stiles, you are not going to be bait,” John repeated.

“Wouldn’t it be better to have someone aware of the supernatural as bait rather than some innocent kid? And won’t it give us access to the building whenever we need it? And won’t it be easier to investigate the apartment? And won’t it be better for us to be there if the spirit goes after anyone else? ” Stiles said. “John?”

John sighed, appearing to silently deliberate. “All right. We’ll stay in the apartment. But you don’t go anywhere alone,” he said pointing at Stiles. “Gather your stuff. I’ll call the landlord.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kid showed up on a Thursday. John’s not in the habit of taking in strays, but the bundle of patheticness sitting on his car has a standing voucher from Bobby and he may prove more than a little useful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two. Enjoy!

**Born on a Thursday: Chapter Two**

The apartment felt creepy, smothered in a sense of utter wrongness. Actually, Stiles thought it might be the whole building. The weird tingling was similar to what he often felt at the Hale House, something Sinéad had told him was his spark’s reaction to the amount of death. Considering the lack of deaths in the building it was unexpected. Stiles took a steadying breath, counted, and did his best to focus. Once they were settled John decided they could look over the building again. Surprisingly he sent Stiles with Dean, the two of them assigned to the top two floors while John covered the bottom two.

Dean looked less pleased with the arrangement than Stiles was; Stiles actually wondered if it was meant to be a sort of punishment to Dean considering the look John gave his son before leaving. Regardless, Stiles had more than enough practice dealing with Jackson. Dean would be a piece of cake.

Dean shoved an EMF detector in his hands roughly with a terse, “Know what this is?”

Stiles nodded reciting a summary of what he’d read earlier that day about electromagnetic fields. “Spirits can cause energy fluctuations that can be detected with one of these,” he said waving the device.

Dean grunted and led the way down the hall with his own EMF, Stiles following close behind watching the lights on his EMF reader. “So are you going to hate me the whole time or is this like a limited time offer?” Stiles asked.

Dean turned, narrowing his eyes, “What are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, feigning innocence. “I thought you were being a rude jackass to me, but maybe that’s just your permanent state of being.”

“Oh that’s hilarious,” Dean muttered. “Seriously, what are you doing here? Choosing to hunt like this? No one in their right mind chooses this.”

“Well, you know, I did,” Stiles said. “Don’t you like hunting?”

“Sure, I love it. But I’m a little twisted.” Dean said with a laugh.

Stiles paused, looking up at Dean seriously. “How do you know I’m not a little twisted too?”

Dean shrugged and started walking again. “You must be if you decided you wanted to come to Dad to learn about ghosts and shit.”

Stiles considered that, deciding, yeah, he was a little twisted. Little did Dean know the twisted part of him wasn’t his decision to come to the Winchesters. No, the twisted part of him went much deeper and much darker than that.

They turned the corner, still nothing registering on the EMFs, and Stiles stopped. A soft whisper drifted down the hallway, resounding against the walls for an odd sort of echo. Stiles breathed out slowly, ice slithering along his spine and hairs pricking on the back of his neck.

“Stiles?”

Stiles jerked around staring at the wall and the grate at the bottom.

“Stiles, what?”

“I'm not sure,” Stiles said, swallowing and focusing on keeping himself settled among the feelings resonating against his spark. 

“Do you smell that?” Dean asked walking closer and taking a deep breath through his nose.

Stiles sniffed trying to place the strange odor. “What is that? Gas?”

Dean shook his head, frowning in puzzlement. “Nah, it’s something else. Can’t put my finger on it.”

Stiles crouched staring intently at the grate and moving his EMF reader in front of it. The lights lit up, the reader beginning to squeal. Stiles flicked it off annoyed at the sound as Dean crouched beside him.

“Mazel Tov,” the hunter said grinning. “You just found your first spirit.”

“Inside a vent?” Stiles asked. Dean nodded and Stiles just sighed. Life shouldn’t be able to surprise him like this anymore. “Of course.”

Dean fished out a flashlight and shined it into the grate. “Here,” he said gruffly shoving it at Stiles and barely waiting for him to take the light before letting go. From one of Dean’s extensive Mary Poppins pockets he produced a screwdriver and quickly unfastened the grating before pulling it off the wall. He reached in without hesitation, feeling around blindly with a hand.

“Aren’t you afraid of, like, getting that bit off or something?” Stiles asked feeling a little vicariously trepidatious.

Dean rolled his eyes. “There’s something in here,” he said, meeting Stiles’ gaze for, like, the first time. He frowned pulling his hand out holding a bloody clump of brown hair. He wrinkled his nose a bit. “Someone’s keeping souvenirs.”

Stiles gagged, averting his eyes. “Oh, gross.”

Dean chuckled still holding the hair and inspecting it curiously. “You actually squeamish?”

“Just with some things,” Stiles said, trying to not look at the hair. “God, can you, like, put it back or throw it away?”

Dean waved it closer to Stiles’ face, expression lighting up with almost childlike glee at Stiles’ recoil. He cackled but pulled the hair away tucking it into his pocket.

“You’re a jackass,” Stiles muttered standing.

Dean pursed his lips nodding in agreement. “That is true. Come on, let’s sweep the rest of the floor then head back. Once my dad is done we can fill him in.” 

* * *

Stiles frowned at the screen in front of him, pictures of the block from the early 1900s. Trying to determine what exactly had been in the field had taken most of the night, but Stiles had _finally_ figured it out.

The apartment was built on ground that had served as an execution area throughout the 1800s, which, talk about disturbing. It had taken Stiles a little over two hours to compose a list of everyone executed, then half an hour to filter out those who were cremated. After that was the slow process of weeding through MOs to compare the past cases with the present. And now he was back to staring at street photographs.

Dean groaned from his position on the leather couch where he’d crashed around two in the morning. John had gone down around three-thirty taking the only bed and leaving the loveseat to Stiles. If Stiles had ever intended to go to sleep, which he had not.

Dean sat up with another groan rubbing at his eyes. He looked over at Stiles, cocking his head in confusion as he peered into the empty bedroom.

“Morning,” Stiles said not looking away from the images and trying to synthesize the street in his mind.

“Where’s my dad?” Dean asked, voice still sounding rough from sleep.

“Coffee run,” Stiles answered.

Dean stood slowly, stretching his back like a cat. And old and bedraggled cat. “Ugh, I hate sleeping on couches. How was the loveseat?”

“Wouldn’t know,” Stiles said tapping on the touch pad impatiently and swiping his fingers across the pad to enlarge the image.

Dean frowned. “You didn't sleep?”

“Nope,” Stiles said, popping on the ‘p’ a little bit.

“Then what did you do?” Dean said, sounding, for some reason, a little angry.

Stiles sighed while contemplating an acceptable answer, but was interrupted, or maybe saved from replying, by John throwing open the door.

“Hey, Dad, where’s the coffee?”

“There are cops outside,” John said. “Another boy disappeared.”

Stiles looked up, the bottom of his stomach falling out. For some reason he’d assumed if he was in the building the other boys would be safe. “What?”

“Dave Hodgman. Apartment 2F. Father reported him missing this morning,” John said.

Dean nodded. “The apartment?”

“Same. Cracks on the walls and ceiling. Ectoplasm, too,” John said. “Between that and the hair tuft you two found I’d say the spirit’s coming from the walls.”

“But who is it?” Dean said, coming to the table to look at the notes. “Building’s history is totally clean.”

Stiles cleared his throat. “About that.”

“What? Don’t say you missed something in your impeccable research,” Dean said.

Stiles shook his head turning his computer so the screen was facing the other men. “No. We might be looking in the wrong place.”

John leaned closer, peering at the black and white photograph displayed. “What do you mean?” Dean asked, mimicking his father’s movement. “It’s just an empty field.”

“Yeah, it’s where this building was built. Look at the one next door,” Stiles said.

“Bars,” Dean said.

“Next door was a prison,” John concluded, shooting a questioning look at Stiles.

“Moyamensing prison. Built in 1835 and torn down in 1963. They used to execute people. By hanging them in the empty field next door,” Stiles said.  

“We need a list of everyone executed here,” John said.

Stiles pulled the computer around clicking a few windows closed. “Done already,” he said presenting the list he’d compiled to the hunters. “A hundred and fifty seven.”

Dean whistled lowly. “We gotta narrow that down.”

“Any of them cremated?” John asked.

“Already removed,” Stiles said. “I’ve been comparing MOs. There’s a couple that match but one in particular,” Stiles clicked open more windows, “matches almost perfectly right down to his victim preference. Uh, Stephen Kraft, convicted of seventeen murders, suspected of nearly, um, two hundred and thirty.”

“Stephen Kraft?” Dean said. “Wasn’t he…”

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “Cannibal who preyed on boys between the ages of thirteen and twenty-five. Slender build, brown or black hair, brown or hazel or grey eyes. He was executed at Moyamensing on May seventh 1896.”

“He used chloroform to subdue his victims and kill them,” Dean said. “Which is what I smelled in the hallway last night. Where is he buried?”

Stiles sighed. “Chicago. But he’s encased in a couple tons of concrete. To keep people from mutilating or, uh, sexually using his corpse because, you know, it’s what he’d do.”

“Well, that’s perfect,” Dean said as John swore.

Stiles winced. “We might have a bigger problem.”

“How?” Dean said. “How does it get bigger?”

Stiles glanced at John calculating John’s knowledge of the serial killer. The older man seemed to know what Stiles was going to say before he said it. “Kraft had an apartment building in Chicago. It was a death factory, a maze with trap doors, acid vats, secret chambers in the walls, think Saw II. He’d lock some of his victims in keeping them alive for days until they suffocated or staved.”

“So Dave could still be alive? Stuck in these walls?” Dean asked.

“We need sledgehammers and crowbars. We’ve got to smash these walls anywhere thick enough to hid a boy,” John said. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Stiles didn’t think he’d hate anything in life as much as he hated the suffocating feeling of the walls closing in on him. The crawl spaces he and Dean were shuffling through were barely big enough for Dean’s six-foot frame. Combined with the dim lighting and increasingly malevolent feeling of the building, Stiles was clinging to his calmness with the figurative tips of his fingers.

He and Dean were three-quarters of the way through the walls on the fourth floor while John was working through the first floor. So far none of them had found anything to  suggest the boys had ever been in the walls. Honestly, Stiles doubted the boys were here in  _these_ walls. Surely someone would have heard or smelled something. Hell, he doubted they were still even alive although that consideration sank his already low spirits. 

“Okay. Call after you check the southeast wall,” Dean said before snapping his phone shut. “Dad’s done with the first floor. Hasn’t found jack squat either. Shit.”

“What is it?” Stiles asked, proud his voice sounded entirely steady. He was kind of concerned that all he'd be able to verbalize was a nearly inaudible squeak. 

“It’s too narrow. Can’t go any further,” Dean said shining his light further down the wall.

“Let me see,” Stiles said, squeezing past Dean and ignoring the other man’s grunt of annoyance. The walls moved closer together and, yeah, no way Dean was fitting through there. Him on the other hand, it’d be a tight squeeze, but he could probably fit. Dean was right. Shit. “I can fit,” Stiles said.

Dean shook his head. “You’re not going in there by yourself.”

“You got a better idea?” Stiles asked half hoping that Dean would because he really did not want to go down there.

“Uh.”

“Of course not,” Stiles muttered. “Okay, okay.” He pushed forward fighting the sneeze he felt building, dust filtering down around his head and clogging in his nose and throat. It was a tight fit, his chest and back scraping along the dirty walls as he inched along. 

“Hey,” Dean called as Stiles approached a turn. “What’s your number?”

Stiles recited his number for Dean before continuing along the wall. As soon as he was out of sight he felt his phone vibrate and answered with a huff, twisting himself in a cheap imitation of a contortionist to fish it from his pocket in the tight quarters. “You and your dad keep a tight leash,” he said.

_“Yeah, it’s called keeping you alive. Find anything?”_

“Aside from a whole new level of claustrophobia? No.”

_“Where are you?”_

Stiles shifted trying to orient himself. It looked like an air duct opened up a few steps in front of him, leading down to the third floor. “Um, along the north wall. There’s an air duct.” He grunted lowering himself down carefully, a true testament of skill what with not dropping himself or his phone. “I’m heading down.”

_“No. No, no, no, stay up here.”_

Stiles huffed, bracing himself and closing his eyes. He wished he had his hands free enough to count. “Look, we have to find this boy, don’t we? I’m okay.”

Dean was quiet a long moment then,  _“You’re an idiot. All right. I’m heading to you.”_

Stiles dropped down to the lower level, which surprise surprise, looked just like the floor above it. Maybe a bit dirtier, if that was possible. He pressed on studiously ignoring the walls around him and the amount of dirt he’d accumulated on his clothes and face. He walked right into a spiderweb, letting out a huff of disgust as he tried to brush it off his face with little success. He shuddered, feeling like insects were crawling over his skin which was entirely possible. A quiet whisper had him freezing, the same feeling from the other day creeping up the back of his neck. “Oh my god,” he whispered watching as a thick black goo began to pour out of the cracks in the wall. He jerked his hands away already knowing it was a fruitless action. 

Dean responded quickly. _“What is it? Stiles?”_

The hand that grabbed him and covered his mouth came out of seemingly nowhere along with an overpowering odor of gas. Chloroform, his brain supplied unhelpfully, and it was the last conscious thought he was aware of.

* * *

“What is it? Stiles?” Dean said urgently, running along the walls now and trying to figure out where the kid was. The cut off scream spurred him into action, slamming the sledgehammer into the wall and poking his head through. The lit screen of Stiles’ phone was all that greeted him along with traces of ectoplasm. Dean swore colorfully pocketing the phone and dialing his father.

“Dad? Get up here. Third floor. He took Stiles.”

John didn’t reply, just hung up with a click, but Dean knew he was on his way. John was striding down the hallway in minutes, countenance a storm of fury. “What happened?” he demanded.

Dean swallowed glancing at the empty hole in the wall. It was slightly surprising but losing Stiles to Kraft felt almost on par with that time Sam had run away without a word to Dean. The same twisting sense of dread and guilt was crawling through him. “I wasn’t with him. I left him alone. I’m sorry.”

“Dean, I told you to keep him with you.” John shined his light into the wall, looking for anything that may be helpful in locating Stiles. 

“I know. I know. The walls got too narrow. I wouldn’t fit but he did so he went and, damnit!” Dean shouted running his hands through his hair in frustration.

“Dean, calm down. We’ll find him.”

“Where?” Dean said. “Inside the walls? Because we’ve been inside the walls all night and none of the other boys were there.”

“Dean,” John repeated. “We’ll find him.”

“He shouldn’t have been here,” Dean said. “He’s just a kid.”

John sighed and clenched his jaw. “We’ll find him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next chapter will be up either tomorrow or Sunday.
> 
> Follow on [tumblr](http://www.lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kid showed up on a Thursday. John’s not in the habit of taking in strays, but the bundle of patheticness sitting on his car has a standing voucher from Bobby and he may prove more than a little useful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! 
> 
> Enjoy!

**Born on a Thursday: Chapter Three**

Stiles gasped, jerking upright and crying out when his forehead hit something solid above him. “Damnit,” he muttered reaching up to rub at his sore head. Looking around carefully he squinted in the darkness trying to make out any shapes, but it was a pointless endeavor. He may as well have been in a cave for how dark it was.

His chest tingled and Stiles closed his eyes sucking in deep breaths to beat down the panic threatening to rise. Running his hands along the walls of wherever he was he determined the space was about three feet wide, six feet long, and two feet tall. A coffin.

Choking back a sob that was threatening, he carefully counted to ten, tapping his fingers, then counted back from ten to zero until he felt calmer.

It was not a coffin. A coffin would not have a slit in the one wall or a cold draft, which indicated at a larger room outside wherever he was. Which was probably one of Kraft’s secret compartments. Maybe a coffin would be better.

Stiles fought down a shiver, uselessly peering through the crack he could feel but not see. “Hello?”

There was a scraping sound, like something shifting along the concrete, then a voice called, “Is, is somebody there?” 

“Dave?” Stiles asked hopefully. The voice sounded young and was definitely male.

There was more sounds of someone moving. “Yeah.”

Stiles sighed. Not in the apartment building after all but still alive. He'd take the victories where he could get them. “This probably won’t make you feel any better, but I’m kind of here to rescue you,” Stiles said leaning his head on the wall.

“He’s gonna kill us,” Dave whispered. “He’s out there and he’s gonna kill us.”

“No,” Stiles said firmly clenching his hands into fists praying he was telling the truth. “No. We’re getting out. The people I was with, they’ll be looking for us. And they’re much better at it than I am.”

He froze, hearing Dave scramble in his own compartment at the sound of footsteps outside. A soft glow filled the room and Stiles swallowed heavily. Kraft was standing by a slit in the wall across the room. He flickered in and out of sight, like a television with bad reception. In between one blink and the next Kraft was standing outside of Stiles’ compartment bringing with him a fetid stench. Stiles recoiled squeezing his eyes shut to block out the filthy and rotting face and turning his face away.

“One, two, three, four, five,” Stiles whispered pressing his hands into his eyes. Ignore and compartmentalize. “Six, seven, eight, nine—” Ignore and compartmen—

A hand clamped down in his hair and Stiles screamed as it wrenched away taking strands of his hair with it.

* * *

“Dean, look at Stiles’ research,” John said gesturing to the notebook and MacBook still sitting on the table.

Dean nodded, opening the laptop and tapping the space bar. He shook his head at the screen that appeared. “It’s locked. Password.”

“Crack it?” John asked.

“Not quickly,” Dean said closing the laptop and setting it aside as he began to dig through the papers. John peered at them briefly, noting the neat handwriting and detailed nature. Bobby hadn’t been exaggerating.

“Did you try calling him?” John said. Dean barely paused pulling an unfamiliar phone from his pocket and handing it over.

“He dropped it when Kraft took him.”

John sighed. “Keep looking through that. See what you can find about Kraft and his victims.” Dean nodded and John pulled the blueprints for the building and city from under the stack of books taking them to the bedroom. Tossing the prints on the bed he pressed the power button on Stiles’ phone pleased to see that it, unlike the laptop, was not locked.

John brought up the contacts scrolling through. Twenty-two names. Only Bobby’s included a last name and some of them seemed to be nicknames. Sourwolf. Red Queen. The Fox. Someone Stiles had dubbed Jackass.

And Dad. No Mom, and John carefully did not think too deeply on that.

John clicked on contact information for ‘Dad,’ quickly jotting down the number. Closing out of contacts he brought up the recent calls. The last, and only, received was from Dean’s number. The last four dialed out were to a Deaton. One dialed out yesterday, the next a month before that, then a week before, and then another month. Whoever Deaton was, Stiles wasn’t keeping in close contact, but he was the only person Stiles had called. John copied down that number as well before closing out of the recent calls and tucking the phone in his pocket.

Spreading the blueprints out he began looking at the building structure, searching for plausible places for hiding bodies that he and Dean hadn’t already checked. It didn’t look promising, Dean was right. They’d cleared most of the walls of the complex and found nothing. The likelihood that the victims were hidden here was slim. And a spirit could have taken those boys anywhere. John huffed flipping through to the city blueprint of the block.

John didn’t know what Bobby had been thinking sending a boy to them; he didn't know what he’d been thinking letting the boy stay. One thing was clear, once he and Dean got Stiles back, _if_ they got him back, he was going on the next bus to South Dakota.

“Dad, think I got something,” Dean called jogging into the room and thrusting Stiles’ notebook at him. On the page was a simple, yet meticulously labeled, layout of Kraft’s Chicago death factory. “All the torture chambers are in the walls, right?”

John nodded, quickly cataloguing all the spots labeled with a tiny ‘tc’ along the walls.

“There’s one we didn't consider,” Dean said tapping the bottom of the page, where the diagram extended below the ground level with another ‘tc’ in the middle. “The one in the basement.”

John glanced at the blueprints on the bed. “This building doesn’t have a basement. Just a foundation.”

“But is there anything under that?” Dean asked pulling the city blueprints towards them.

John tapped the paper. “Here. Old sewer system. Let’s go.”

* * *

The dull thudding echoed throughout the dark room, reverberating back to his small prison eerily. Stiles grunted doing his best to not think to closely about anything as he continued to kick at the wall. Despite being old wood it was proving surprisingly strong. Stile dropped back burying his head in his arms tiredly. What he wouldn’t give for some werewolf strength in this moment and the ability to punch through rock with only his fist. Derek would have no problem kicking his way out. But no, he’s just Stiles. Puny, weak, human Stiles.

At the sound of footsteps in the now quiet space Stiles rolled over, peering through the crack. The spirit always brought light with it somehow. Kraft was staring back at him and Stiles jerked away as a hand came through the wall lightly caressing down Stiles’ face. He twisted away as much as the small space would allow digging his hand down into his pocket.

“So pretty. So beautiful,” Kraft crooned.

Stiles grimaced, tugging at the drawstrings to the pouch in his pocket. He felt it come free and wriggled his hand in the pouch fingers brushing through the fine grains. He yanked his hand free, flinging the small handful of the salt he’d taken from the diner earlier at Kraft’s hand and face.

Kraft recoiled, disappearing with a disjointed scream.

Stiles laughed, shaking in relief and feeling like he’d collapse if there was anywhere for him to fall. “Salt,” he said trying and failing to quit laughing like a lunatic. “Fucking salt. Who knew?”

“Is he gone?” Dave asked, whisper tentatively echoing in the space.

Stiles took a deep breath, calming his racing heart. “I don’t know. I think so?”

The moment the words left his mouth Stiles regretted them. Of course the moment he said so Kraft rematerialized slamming Stiles’ head into the wall before flattening a hand over Stiles’ mouth and nose. He had no idea how a spirit managed to seem so corporeal. Stiles screamed, or rather he tried too. It worked about as well as moving when paralyzed with Kanima venom. 

His chest constricted, lungs crying out for oxygen as dark spots encroached on his vision, and damn if being suffocated didn’t feel sort of like a panic attack. Stiles struggled weakly, kicking desperately at the walls and trying to pull his head away. His spark surged wildly in his chest and Stiles pushed it down hard. Kraft’s other hand was clenched around the wrist holding the pouch of salt and no matter how Stiles twisted his hand he couldn’t get the right angle to dump the salt on Kraft.

The report of a gunshot startled Stiles almost as much as the sudden vanishing of the vice grip on his wrist and hand over his airways. Stiles gasped, welcoming the stale air into his lungs greedily.

“Stiles!”

God bless John Winchester, Stiles thought vaguely as he knocked his hand against the wooden walls and called out hoarsely, “I’m here.”

Not a moment too soon, John was ordering him to shield his eyes and prying the wood loose from the wall. Stiles scrambled out as fast as possible, a jumbled flailing of limbs as his legs refused to support him at first. John caught him around the waist, tossing Dean the crowbar to get Dave out before practically picking Stiles up under the shoulders and setting him on his feet. “You all right?” he asked roughly.

Stiles nodded, jerky motions that set off a new wave of dizziness. “Been better, but I’ve been worse too,” he said looking past John to assess Dave who seemed fine with Dean. “Can we leave now?”

John didn’t answer right away and Stiles brought his gaze back to the older man sensing he wasn’t going to like whatever John said next. “What?”

John glanced back at Dean who was speaking quietly to Dave. “Remember when I said no to you being bait? You being bait is our only plan now.”

Stiles blinked absorbing the information. “Bait,” he repeated. “Oh. Okay. What do I do?”

* * *

Stiles tapped his fingers along his leg once again, counting as he went. One, two, three, four, five. Even knowing John and Dean were just out of sight wasn’t quite enough to keep the panic clawing at his chest tamped down completely. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten. He hoped the two men couldn’t tell how terrified he was, sitting quietly in the middle of the dark room.

Keeping his breaths deep and steady was outwardly projecting a calmness that he didn’t feel inside, his heart hammering in his chest fast enough that it would have never gone unnoticed if Scott or any werewolf was around. Forget his heart. The chemosignals alone would be more than enough to alert any werewolf within sniffing distance of his fear.

Also, the feeling of impending doom, a constant down here in the death chamber, was doing an excellent job at sending his spark into a near freak out. Into a roiling and intense churning that was doing its own part in suffocating him. It was like an internal alarm going off, screaming “Danger! Danger!” and telling him to run.

He stiffened sensing the sudden coalescing of Kraft’s spirit behind him. Stiles clenched his eyes shut counting in earnest now and waiting. He had to wait. Even as his whole being screamed to flee he needed to wait.

“Now!” John shouted and Stiles flung himself forward keeping low to the ground as John and Dean fired above his head. He hauled himself up on the ledge accepting Dean’s hand gratefully and being careful to not disturb the circle of salt. Twisting around Stiles stared at Kraft who was spinning slowly around in horror at the circle of salt that now trapped him.

“Scream all you want, Kraft,” Dean said. “No way you’re stepping over that salt.”

John tugged him back and Stiles stumbled after him, following blindly and keeping his eyes on Kraft until Dean slid the grate shut and sealed off the room.

Emerging from the sewers to the fresh air felt like being reborn. Stiles pulled himself through the door and promptly flung himself in the grass squinting at the moon shining far above him and taking deep breaths of the cool air. Almost a full moon; only three days prior. Stiles brought his hands up quickly counting before heaving a final sigh of relief.

Dean stood over him, a shadowed warrior towering above him and Stiles couldn’t bring himself to care. “You okay?”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Could use some food though,” he added trying to figure out how long it’d been since he ate. He was pretty sure he missed a few meals at least. And he was probably dehydrated.

Dean chuckled. “I bet.”

“Come on, boys. You two get cleaned up, and I’ll go grab some food,” John said.

Stiles groaned but pushed himself to his feet. “Awesome. I totally need a shower. Kraft was totally full of bad touches,” he said shuddering.

* * *

 Showering was a heavenly experience and Stiles couldn't even complain about the burger and fries John brought back from him. Not curly but not soaked in grease so he’d live.

After dinner John had Dean and Stiles pack up to be ready to leave in the morning. Dean crashed on the bed at John’s insistence by one, John following on the couch not long after around two-thirty. Stiles stayed awake for a while longer scanning the Beacon Hills news and reading up more on vengeful spirits, specifically about dealing with ones who couldn’t be put to rest. At four Stiles drug a couple pillows and a blanket to the far corner of the room, as far from John as possible, and settled down for some shuteye.

He was up by six-thirty and planted back in front of his computer when John woke at seven. Stiles ignored the contemplative look John gave him as the man left, probably for coffee and breakfast, and didn’t move from the table until Dean emerged from the bedroom at eight mumbling about needing to meet his dad.

Stiles and Dean arrived at the sewer door before John, apparently, judging by the lack of tall, dark, and scary man. “You sure we’re supposed to meet him here?”

“Yeah,” Dean grunted.

Stiles sighed staring at the metal door and worrying at his lip. There was only a faint resonance against his spark at this distance, but Stiles could still feel Kraft. It was more than a little unnerving and he made a mental note to consider calling Sinéad or Deaton to get their perspectives. Probably Deaton. He was the least shady of the two.

“So,” Dean started, shuffling his feet a bit and rolling his shoulders still a little stiff from sleeping even though he’d had the bed, “the job as glamorous as you expected?”

Stiles scoffed. “Except for the pee-your-pants terror? Yeah. To be honest, I didn’t have expectations of glamor. I knew exactly what I was getting into.”

“Really?” Dean asked arching an eyebrow disbelievingly.

“Yes, really. And Dave is going to live his life because of us. It’s worth it, isn’t it?”

Dean actually smiled. Like a genuine smile. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Hey, what happens if somebody finds the sewer down there?” Stiles asked finally voicing his concerns. “Of if a storm washes the salt away? Or a rat disturbs the line?”

“All fine points. Also why we're waiting here.”

Stiles frowned. “I thought we were waiting for John.”

Dean grinned grabbing Stiles’ shoulders to turn him around. “We are,” he said as a cement truck turned onto the street.

“Oh,” Stiles said as John began to back the truck up, the loud beeping echoing against the buildings on either side. Dean gestured for John to continue backing up until the truck was in position. John brought the truck to a halt as Dean motioned for him to stop, putting it in park and jumping out. John and Dean set the cement mixer over the entrance and started the cement flowing.

“You stole a cement truck?” Stiles asked doubtfully.

John huffed. “I’ll give it back.” He rolled his shoulders, glancing at Dean briefly before settling his gaze on Stiles. “We need to talk.”

Stiles unconsciously squared his shoulders, refusing to feel intimidated by John. Good conversations never started with the ‘we need to talk’ phrase. In fact conversations that started with ‘we need to talk’ generally led to bad break up speeches or a serious talk about how someone was dying or dead. Since he was neither dating John or Dean nor was he particularly attached to anyone the hunters knew, Stiles was pretty sure what John wanted to talk about was along the lines of him no longer being able to hunt with them. Which, now that he thought about it, was basically a break up speech.

“I’m not leaving,” Stiles said. Maybe preemptively heading off John’s ‘I don’t think this is working out, Stiles’ would make the man reconsider.

John raised an eyebrow but didn’t look particularly convinced. “Well you can’t stay. Dean and I have enough to worry about on hunts without you getting underfoot. I got you a bus ticket back to Sioux Falls and gave Bobby a call. He knows you’re coming,” he said pulling the ticket from his pocket and holding it out to Stiles.

Stiles frowned reaching out to take the ticket. He stared at the slip of paper for a moment, noting the time and date and destination. A free ride back to Bobby’s and away from hunting. A free ride from Pennsylvania back to South Dakota. Closer to California than Stiles wanted to be anytime soon.

He looked up from the ticket to see John and Dean regarding him closely, John with an expression of expectation and Dean with a look of something that approximated regret, maybe, Stiles wasn’t sure.

John, though, John’s expectant expression that showed clearly his belief that Stiles would just take the ticket and leave…it pissed him off.

Stiles tore the ticket in half tossing it into the deluge of cement still pouring into the sewer entrance. “I said I wasn’t leaving.”

Dean arched an incredulous eyebrow taking a slight step back like he thought Stiles had just signed his death warrant. John frowned, countenance darkening into anger. “Fine. Stay in Philadelphia. Pay for your own goddamn bus ticket. But you’re not coming with us.”

“Dad,” Dean started, but John cut him off with a dark look.

“Maybe I’m wrong,” Stiles said, “but I thought I was an asset to you on this case. I did everything you asked, researched my ass off, even played bait, and now you’re telling me to leave? We had a deal, Winchester! I follow your rules and you teach me to hunt!” Stiles yelled stepping into John’s personal space. The man may have been taller than him but Stiles was a force to be reckoned with when he was angry. And he was very, very angry.

John seemed a tad surprised, just a tad, Dean seemed more thrown than he was, and Stiles took advantage of that, speaking over whatever the man was about to say. “I have been wandering all over the place for weeks to find a hunter to teach me! And you, in all your jackassery, were the best that I found so you _have_ to help me!”

“Just what are you mixed up in, kid?” John asked. He seemed unmoved that Stiles was shouting basically right in his face and that served to only fan the flames of anger and frustration threatening the burst from Stiles’ chest.

“That’s not any of your concern,” Stiles said taking a step back. He clenched his jaw forcing himself to halt his unconscious retreat. John was not allowed to turn this back on him.

“You want me to teach you, to let you travel with us, let you around my son,” John said gesturing back to Dean who looked a little miffed at being brought into the argument, “without asking any questions?”

“I’m not a danger to you or Dean,” Stiles said. “All you need to know is I want to learn. I’m begging you, John, please.”

“Stiles—”

“I want to learn,” he repeated. “And I swear you can send me wherever, leave me behind, whatever, but I will always track you down.”

“Dad,” Dean said. “Come on, he’s just a kid. We can’t just leave him here.”

Stiles bristled at being called a kid. If there was one thing he wasn’t anymore it was a kid. That innocence had been long ago lost, and he was older than his years now. But he clamped down on his instinctive reaction, staying silent and leveling John with a challenging glare.

John said nothing, regarding Stiles critically. “We’ll take you back to Bobby’s,” he said finally and Stiles huffed in frustration ready to launch into another tirade but John held up a hand. “Not directly. A few hunts on the way. I’ll reconsider once we’re in Sioux Falls.”

Stiles nodded. He could work with that. “Fine. It’s a deal.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr [here](http://lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)
> 
> Next part of the series to be up soon!
> 
> (Why the hell is this other note showing up on this chapter? I'm so confused.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Next chapter will be up shortly. 
> 
> Follow on [tumblr](http://www.lapsuscalamiwriting.tumblr.com)


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